


Come Home

by FyrinSparks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrinSparks/pseuds/FyrinSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a while since the Fall, and I just couldn't get over it. I just wanted that madman to come home. So I wrote a Letter. </p><p>Will continue if there is enough positive feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

Dear Sherlock,

I don't understand. I don't know why you jumped, and maybe I never will, but I know one thing. You were never a fake. You are impossible, and lazy, and arrogant, and a right pain in my arse, but you are not a fake. And you are brilliant.

I remember on our first case, when I'd first met you, I don't remember what I'd asked Lestrade exactly, but I remember his response. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." I think you are now. Hell I think you always were. I don't know why you jumped, but I know in the days before that damn fiasco, you were good. You apologized and smiled. You were more compassionate. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated it.

I also remember that you told Anderson, that same night, that you were a 'highly functioning sociopath'. Now that, that I take issue with. You may not have realized, Sherlock, but you have so much heart. I think the real reason you try to lock away all of your emotions is that you can't handle them all. I know that you have a great brain, you always have and always will, but I also believe that you have a great heart. One that you do your best to lock away for fear of getting hurt. 'Caring is not an advantage' and all that.

That same night, when you made that comment about Jennifer Wilson not being upset about her daughter, you noticed. A sociopath wouldn't have. You noticed how everyone stopped and you immediately turned to me and asked. You asked, when no sociopath would have cared. There are so many more times I could describe to prove it to you, saving Irene, and yeah, I knew, saving Mrs. Hudson, defending your friends, the pool and so many other times. You were a good friend you know.

There are so many things I want to ask you. Now I may never know the answers. No, you know what, no. I refuse to believe that. You can't be dead. You just can't. One day you'll come home. You'll come home to me, to all of us. And I'll punch you and scream and cry, and you'll know it's because I care. I care way too damn much. You're my best friend Sherlock. Hell, you're more than that. I wouldn't drop dates and work for a 'friend'. I don't know what that makes us, but I know I want you home.

I want you home, you hear me? I want you to play your blasted violin at bloody three o'clock in the morning. I want to have to force you to eat because your body is just 'transport'. I want there to be more smiley faces painted and blasted onto the wall, you hear me? I want you to rant about random experiments that I'll have to clean up. I want you to go off on a tirade about that damn deerstalker. I want you to be insufferable and sulk on that horrid couch that I can't hardly look at anymore. I just want you here.

I meant what I said at your grave you know. I do owe you. I was depressed you know, oh of course you do. I didn't eat much, kinda like now. It's not that I want to die, it's just that food just doesn't interest me anymore. And then you swept in, with your coat and your turned up collar and mysterious cheekbones. It became all dashing about, saving people and hunting down criminals. It was a good life you know. We would giggle inappropriately at crime scenes and I would try to keep you from traumatizing witnesses. I had a friend again. I had someone that I cared about, someone to look after. Maybe that's what I needed. I don't think I missed the war or the stress, I think I missed having to look after a friend in a situation they couldn't take care of on their own. Now, the damn limp is back. Psychosomatic, I know, but that doesn't stop it from hurting like hell. The nightmares are back too. They had faded, but now they're back. With appearances of you falling again and again. Of you bleeding out on the pavement and me helpless to save you.

I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said you were a machine. There is no way you could have not cared about Mrs. Hudson being hurt, I guess that was a ruse to get me away. Away from the final battle between you and that tosser. I don't know what he had over you, to make you jump. I don't know why you did it, but I know you must have had no choice, because there is no way in hell you would leave me on purpose. We found that he'd killed himself. If he did that before you jumped, why'd you jump, if after, what did he say to make you go that far? Did he have a gun pointed at you? No, that can't be it.

Please Sherlock, come home. I don't care what the entire bleeding world says, you're not a fake, you're you. You're my friend, my flatmate, and I shouldn't love you but I do, so please, please for the love of God, come home so that I can bloody well tell you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know that some of you may be wondering why on earth it's showing that I'm updating, but I am honest. I'm not satisfied with the way the story looks right now, so I'll be fixing it up a bit for the next week. For all new comers, welcome, it's nice to see you! Hope you enjoy the story and keep reading. All rights go to BBC, I own nothing. Thanks for any R&R's you choose to leave!
> 
> Next Chapter: The Visit


	2. The Visit

The flowers where blue. A beautiful dark blue, the same color of his scarf. I didn't know their names, I'd been sort of out of it when the florist was explaining them to me. I thought he'd like them. In the least, after he was done scolding me for being a  _'sentimental_  idiot'.

The sky was a clear, bright blue. The type of blue that is only found after a long and relentless rain. It was, to be frank, a stunning day. Even the damn birds were happily chirping away.

I walked slowly, making my way past graves. Graves of grandfathers and grandmothers. Of mothers and fathers, of sons and daughters, of lovers and brothers, of husbands and wives. And in far, far too many heartbreaking cases, of the children, who never got the chance to grow up. I walked past all of the names. For that's all we are after we're gone. Just a name, and hopefully, the memories in the mind of those we loved, and those we were loved by.

I paused at last at a rather curious grave. The headstone was pitch black, and polished. There were only two words engraved in white onto the surface. "Sherlock Holmes". This was all that was left of that madman. Just two words carved onto a stone, in a silent graveyard, with a pile of rotting bones and flesh underneath. In the dark, damp earth.

I placed the flowers carefully before the grave. "Hello again." I spoke at last, finding my words and forcing them past a dry throat after many moments of silence. "Hello again Sherlock. It's been too long, I know that I really do. A whole month." I fell silent as the implications of that settled into my heart. An entire month, without Sherlock Holmes. A month with me being without my madman, and him being without his blogger. "And I'm very sorry about that, I truly am. But I'm sorry Sherlock, I just. I just-I couldn't come. I couldn't come to the place where my best friend was buried. Where one of the only people I've ever really cared about was left to rot in the dirt." My voice was hardly above a whisper, but I knew that if I tried to speak louder, my voice would crack, and he'd somehow be able to hear all the emotion still present in my voice.

My lips twitched into a small and rather pathetically sad smile. "I still can't believe you're dead you know. I keep thinking to myself,  _any day. Any day now he is going to walk through that door, and I'm going to give him hell for leaving me alone again._ I can't help but feel that you're still alive." I let out a short, humorless bark of laughter. "There's honestly a large part of me that thinks that you must have bugged your own tombstone and are listening to this entire thing. If you have, and that would be more than a bit not good, then you are a bloody tosser, and you need to come home now."

"I miss you, you know. And no matter what I said, no matter any of that, please, know this. I care-cared for you Sherlock. And I honestly don't know how long it's going to take, but I will hunt down that bastards' web and kill every last bleeding one of them." My lips twisted into a cold smile. "In fact, I've already started. Mycroft, the twat, is helping me, since he owes me for all eternity for giving Moriarty what he needed against you."

 _I love you, you idiot. I fucking love you. I want you to come home to me. To wrap me in those spindly arms of yours and take me back to the way things were._ I could think, and even write those things, but I couldn't say them out loud just yet. What I could say was this, "Lestrade needs you back on the cases, he's been having more than a few issues. Molly says hello, she seems much quieter these days, can't say I know why, other than the obvious. But I don't think that's the only reason. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't stop crying you know. Kept sobbing for days on end. Even now, whenever violin music starts up I-she gets teary." I took a deep breathe,  _I can do this, it's his fucking grave for God's sakes, who the fuck is it going to tell_ , "I need you too you know. Far too much. It's been to quiet, and I miss the sound of gunshots echoing up to my room. I miss your papers lying everywhere. And everything is all just too damn boring without you around. People still come around asking for help on cases. I help when I can, but these days, far too many people are dying due to the, how did you say it, the  _ineptitude_  of the police and private detectives."

I was starting to lose it now. "I need you back in my life. I never realized how much you really meant to me until you were gone, and now I need you back." My voice cracked on the last word. Trying to keep together, I got up from where I'd been kneeling on the ground before my best friends grave and whispered, "Come home to me you great bloody git." The last thing I could say came out in a broken whisper before I turned and swiftly walked away.

"I love you, so come home to me Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More editing fun was had... Thanks for all of you who stuck with it! Hope you keep reading and enjoying, it's been fun to work with it again... for all of you who are reading, thank you so much, it's really great. I, once again, own nothing, it's all up to BBC to create the characters, I just mess around with them. See you later lovelies!
> 
> Next Chapter: Author's Note, please do read


	3. Author's Note

**Thank you to those who have been reading, it means the world to me. I can't exactly apologize to those who cried, since I cried while writing it, and it's sort of a compliment if you cried while reading it.**

**I know that for some of you who have read bits and pieces of this story before, and those who actually stuck it out through to the end, it may not seem like I'm changing much, but I am mostly going to be working with the last few chapters, since I'm unhappiest with those the most. I'm not sure weather I'll take them down or just leave them as they are for now, but know that unless the Author's Note is at the bottom, it hasn't been edited, and you should probably wait. Or read it, tell me how to improve it, and it'll help me work with it. I** **have written a reunion scene, but I'm not happy with it yet, so I'm going to keep working at it until I'm satisfied. It feels too OOC for my tastes, and far too cheesy. So I'll be working on that as well, I may even to a complete re-write for that, so be warned.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from BBC Sherlock, although I do own mine if I put some in here.**

**Next Chapter: The Dreams**


	4. The Dreams

Why are you here today, John? You haven't been here since Sh-... Is everything alright?" Ellen Thompson, my therapist. Always worrying, although this time she may have been right to worry.

"It's been a year." I murmured. I was slightly dazed by the thought of that actually. "An entire year. Since my best friend, the greatest man I've ever known, jumped off a building and killed himself." Ellen simply nodded her head sagely, as if this was something she saw every day. That would usually irritate me, but not that day. That day I was having trouble remembering to breathe, let alone having enough energy for anger. "It's been a year." I whispered, still not quite believing.

"John, you wouldn't have come to me if it was just an anniversary of his death," Note how she won't say his name until I do, "after all, you didn't come after it'd been a month. What's different? What's new?" Clever Ellen, clever. "Is everything okay at your job? I hear you've been traveling quite a lot recently, want to say anything about that?" Oh Ellen, if I told you what I was doing while traveling, you'd put me away. I mean sure, Mycroft would have me out in a heartbeat, but you'd still be frightened.

I was waking out of my stupor now. I could feel the chill closing in and I had to fight it off. The cold that threatened to consume my heart and my soul. Just like they thought it had consumed his, even though it hadn't. A small smile graced my lips without me realizing it. Ellen gasped, perhaps she was surprised to see the sadness in my eyes. Because it was there. So much sadness, that it just seemed routine to feel heartbroken now.

"I've been traveling on Sherlock's behalf. " That was true enough. I was. The fact that I was killing on his behalf, I'd keep to myself.

"How so?" Ellen tilted her head to one side, curious and slightly confused.

"Sherlock left some loose ends when he-. Anyway, I've been clearing them up for him." My tone was dismissive enough, but for some reason she still had to pry.

"What sort of loose ends? How have you been dealing with them? Has it been hard for you? Please, John, you need to talk to me if you want me to help you." I stared at her for a while in stony silence, long enough to make her sigh and drop her head.

"Well then, if you won't talk to me about that, why are you here?" Fine, enough games. The smile slipped from my lips, and I could feel the blood draining out of my face. "John?" My eyes grew even more sorrowful.

"I've been having dreams." And such dreams they were.

"Nightmares?" Ellen, come on, you're cleverer than that. Did she honestly think that the soldier, the heartless killer and murderer would go to her about a string of bad dreams?

"No, no not nightmares. I'm used to the nightmares, I've been having them for the past year. The dreams themselves aren't bad at all, they-... they are just..." I trailed off, unable to explain.

"What are they like, if they aren't bad?" Ellen glossed over my admission to having nightmares for the last year. She probably had already guessed that.

"They-... I-" I was getting frustrated now, it was impossible to explain!

"Just, describe them to me John. What happens in your dreams?" Her voice was perpetually smooth and soothing. I wonder if you had to take a class for it before become a therapist?

"In my-my dreams," I took a deep breath to steady myself before continuing, "Sherlock and I just solved a case. He's practically glowing with smug superiority and he's in high spirits. Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly had come over to celebrate. He's telling a story. I don't remember what of, but I remember what he looked like as he told it." My eyes slowly unfocussed as I became overwhelmed with the memory. I grin broadly, the first real smile I've had in a long time. "His eyes where full of life, his face slightly flushed, his hair generally disheveled and his arms gesturing as his legs moved him about the room, acting out this story. We were all laughing, with glasses of wine in our hands... We were happy." I came back to earth slightly, gulping as I remembered just exactly were and when I was. "Later in the evening, Sherlock brings out his violin. Our guests have gone home, Mrs. Hudson is back downstairs, and it's just me and him. He starts to play. It's something new, something I've never heard before in my life, but it wrenches at my heart. It's just so beautiful and serene, as if he's taken contentment and love itself and transformed it into this." I took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's a beautiful dream. What's the problem?" She didn't seem to understand.

"The problem is when I wake up!" I snapped at her. "The problem is that when I wake up, I remember, I remember that he's dead. That I'll never hear him laugh again. That I'll never get to see his eyes light up when he's solved it at last. That I'll never chase after him because he's done it again, that brilliant, bloody idiot has messed up again and I have to help him. I remember. Tha-That he threw himself onto the pavement and he's dead." At this statement my heart just breaks. I could see the sympathy inside of Ellen's eyes, and I just couldn't take it. I stood up and walked to the door, before pausing and whispering brokenly back at her, "The problem is that he's dead, and the only way I'll ever see him again is in dreams that break my heart." I walked out of the door, not looking back. And knowing that if I did, I'd see the pity in her eyes, and she'd see the tears in mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's all nice and edited now! Added a few things, I think it made it better, let me know what you guys think. Thanks for reading, please keep doing so, the next one is all nice and action-y. It's fun. All characters so far belong to the BBC, not to me. But hey, it's still fun! Sorry about it being a bleeding angst fest, but I like it like that.
> 
> Next Chapter: The Final Loose End


	5. The Final Loose End

_"Sherlock left some loose ends when he-. Anyway I've been clearing them up for him."_ If that was true, then I supposed this would be the last loose end. Sebastian Moran, the last of Moriarty's web. He hadn't been easy to find, after all, with me killing almost a third of the organization within 6 months of Sherlocks passing, and Mycroft using one of his agents to kill another third, he'd gone into hiding.  _Really_  far into hiding.

But there I was at last. Standing there, with Sebastian Moran tied to a chair. In the basement of a building scheduled for demolition later that afternoon. It was satisfying, I won't lie. It felt  _damn_ good. And this time, there was absolutely  _no chance_  of him slipping away. The only reason he'd managed before was because Mycroft's  _agent_  getting emotional and therefore giving the target a chance to escape.

I wasn't going to kill him. No. Not just yet. I needed him to look me in the eyes first. I needed him to tell me  _why_  Sherlock had jumped. I'd asked this of every bleeding target I'd hunted down. None would say, or rather, none of them  _could_  say. Apparently, The Ally, as I'd taken to calling Mycroft's agent, hadn't gotten any answers either. I knew that it had something to do with snipers. That much was clear. Moriarty had been fond of those. He used them in the Great Game, on me and Sherlock in the pool, and a few other times. But who were the targets? Who could Moriarty have possibly targeted to make Sherlock literally fling himself to the cement and crack his head open. Can you tell I was pissed as all hell at him?

Ah. Moran was starting to waken.

"Good morning Mr. Sebastian Moran." He jerked his head up, looking around wildly searching for me, eyes unfocussed from the head trauma.  _Blunt object to the back of the head. Bleeding and severe concussion, recovery-time; around 4 months, if treated at a hospital_. I wasn't planning on getting the bastard to a hospital. I stood in the shadows, I just wanted to watch him squirm for a little while before revealing myself.

"It's the afternoon, or night, depending on how long I've been out." He was reverting back to simple concepts to try and clear his head and get his bearings.

"In our current Beijing, sure, but not at home. In London, it's going on 10 in the morning." I stepped out of the shadows as I spoke. Moran breathed in sharply.

"Oh God, it's you." He chuckled slightly, starting to shake his head before stopping, wincing almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, and who were you expecting?" He looked up at me, with almost... was that  _pity?_  I drew myself up to my full height, stalking towards him and glaring as I said, "Who were you expecting, Moran?" He chuckled again before answering.

"Who else? Sherlock Holmes." My heart didn't even falter. I'd heard people tell me that he was the one they expected.

"Sherlock Holmes is rotting in a grave, 2 meters below the surface." This time Moran did cringe fully, not trying to repress his surprise at my description of my best friend, and the acid coating my words. What could I say? I was tired, and I was angry. I was so beyond sadness at this point. I was tired of hunting down an entire bloody  _crime syndicate_  in my free time. I was just so very,  _very_ angry. At Moran, at Moriarty, and most of all, the bastard himself who decided to leave me behind. I continued on, "And the only reason you're not joining him at the same sea level is one thing, and one thing alone." My voice was cold. I was a soldier again, a Captain. No more the Doctor, and very little of the Good Man left.

"Oh, and what would that be?" He was wary, and his suspicion showed in his voice. Good.

"You, Sebastian Moran, are going to tell me something that all your predecessors couldn't. Why it is that Sherlock Holmes threw himself to the ground?" I paused. When Moran simply glared, I continued, "And if you tell me this one thing, if  _full_ mind, then I'll turn you into the police."

Moran snorted and retorted, "Well you sure are giving me one  _hell_ of a lot of incentive to agree aren't you? Why should I tell you a single goddamned thing?" I grinned, and Moran instinctively tried to get away from the pure malice and cruelty of that smile.

"Sebastian," I said tauntingly, "I have no real desire to kill you, I 'd like to believe that I'm still the good man I started out as. But you see, I honestly detest you, and if I don't kill you, then I'll just have to settle for seeing you rot behind bars all of your life. And since you are the last of your organization," I cut off his retort, "You will be there for life."

"All right fine!" Sebastian growled out at me, "I'll tell you, not like  _he_ can do anything to me anymore, and you are that  _good man_ ," On those last two words he sneered with derision, "So why the fuck not?"

I settled back, stepping back a few paces to make him feel less threatened and to make him relax.

"How much do you know, Watson?" I tensed, that was the first time he'd said my name so far. People only did that sort of thing for emphasis, or when they knew they were going to say this all along.  _What are you planning?_  I wondered.

"I know that it must have been something to do with snipers. Something  _made_  Sherlock jump, and it had something to do with snipers. That's all I know. Oh, and before you ask, I have asked every damn one of you snipers this question, they said they would die before they answered. Considering I don't have an answer yet, you can guess what happened to them."

He just grinned, then continued, "Moriarty tempted Sherlock with the thought of a code,  _In a world of locked doors, the man who holds the key is King. And honey you should see me in a crown._ That's what Moriarty said."

"Yeah, I know that bit." I interrupted, motioning my hand for him to hurry up.

"Well, that's why Sherlock led Moriarty onto the roof, he thought he'd figured out the code. Only there was no code." He smiled at that.

"Yes, I know, we figured that out, inside jobs."

"Oh, so you know more than I expected. Mycroft?" He asked genuinely surprised.

I snorted and replied, "Lestrade, actually. He was a friend of Sherlock's too, and he needed something to focus all the anger at."

"Interesting. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Moriarty needed Sherlock to commit suicide for his image to be tarnished beyond all repair, so he used the one weakness Sherlock Holmes had against him to make him jump." I sighed, not enjoying his attempts to be enigmatic.

"Yeah, yeah, cut the dramatics, what weakness?"

He huffed before answering, "You've referenced before that Sherlock Holmes had a heart, and you were right. So, Moriarty pointed his snipers at the three people he held in it."

"Moriarty threatened Sherlock's friends? I thought he was supposed to be smart!"

At this Moran glared and snapped, "Well it worked, didn't it?"

I took a sharp breath before growing out, "Who did Moriarty threaten?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He was actually surprised!

"Just answer the damn question."

"You. You, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in-fact."

"And if he didn't jump, the snipers would shoot. But there had to be a code, a code word or something that Moriarty used to call them off. They couldn't all be watching Sherlock jump. Why didn't Sherlock get the damn code!" My voice worked it's way up from a quiet whisper to a demanding shout, as I paced forward so that I was towering above Moran.

"Moriarty killed himself before Sherlock could get the code from him!" Moran shouted back, slightly panicked at the frankly unhinged look in my eyes.

I leaned back and smiled, "Thank you, for your cooperation." I walked forward more, walking around Moran, who twisted his head around to try and follow my movements. "You've been so helpful."

"You said you wouldn't kill me! You said if I talked I wouldn't have to die!" Moran was honestly terrified and I couldn't care less. I simply smiled a smile that didn't reach my eyes and cocked the gun in my hands. Sherlocks gun.

"Yes, and you said I was still a  _good man,_ but I haven't been a good man since the man I-" Well what was the harm, he's gonna be dead soon anyways, who the fuck will he tell, "Since the man I loved took a swan dive. To save my life according to you. Good-bye Sebastian Moran." My voice as cold as a glacier for that last sentence, I disengaged the safety and shot one warning shot. Into his head.

The last loose end left by one Sherlock Holmes, officially tied up. My posture sagged, the anger mixing with the sorrow in my body, and I allowed myself to feel the exhaustion and guilt that Moran's explanation caused. A choked sob forced its way passed my throat, and before I knew it, I was kneeling on the floor, with my head in my hands, sobbing my bleeding heart out.

 _He did it for us. For all of us. He killed himself for me. And I never said. He cared that much, and I never told him I loved him._ That thought only made me cry harder.

After a good long while, I left the building, texted Mycroft to send a clean-up crew, and allowed myself to breath deeply for the first time in 1 and a half years. For the first time since Sherlock's death. Maybe, just maybe, I could start to recover. But I knew I'd never care for someone the same way again, nor would I leave Baker Street. I would never forget him, and even if I was ready to start to try to forgive him, God only knows how long it's gonna take.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite chapter nice and pwetty. I love this chapter I really do. I thought it would be more interesting if John was the one to end Sebastian Moran, instead of Sherlock. Review if you liked it, tell me if there's anything else you'd like to see me change.
> 
> Everything goes to ACD and BBC, but I do love to play with there characters.
> 
> Next Chapter: The Sentiment


	6. The Sentiment

_SoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoonSoon._ The mantra was going on and on, no matter any and all attempts to silence it. Repetition... Dull. Tedious. Predictable. But unfortunately, at the moment it was also incessant.  _H_ _ome. HomeHomeSoonHomeSoonSoonHomeJo-_  Oh for Christ's Sake! I blame John. He's the reason I'm so damnably  _excited._ Almost 2 years. 1 year 10 months, 4 days and a 3 hours to be more exact. Almost 2 years of relying on bugs and inferior quality surveillance videos, trying to look after my blogger, even when he couldn't even know that I was alive. But  _soon._ I could  _see_ him again soon.  _JohnJohnSafeHomeSoonSafeJohnJohnHomeSoonSoonSoonSafeHomeJohn._ I'm nearly home. 2 damn years of blood and searching and hiding and fear. Alway fear. Damn irrational on some occasions when my mind knows my safe house really is  _safe_ but my body simply refuses to bow to logic. It's been alarmingly frequent these last months. Always, always fear.

Fear for John, for Lestrade, for Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Despite my knowledge that they should be safe, my brain was on a constant, frustratingly repetitive circle of fear. Fear that I would be discovered. That all my hard work would be for naught. Ended with three gunshots, and the corpses of my three only friends. Four if you counted Molly as a friend, and she would be killed should I be discovered. The only ones I really trusted would be gone. And while I may have been alone and friendless before that by no means implies that I wish to be so again.

And fear that by the time I got back, it would be too late. That John would be too damaged. Or maybe even that he would move on from me, as so many others have done, and as I'd always knew he would one day. I know, in a way, what my 'death' did to John. I'm not an idiot, and I've been keeping an eye on him of course, as best as able. I knew that due to his bleeding heart and his damn  _sentiment,_  he would be affected. What I didn't expect was the normality he became very proficient in portraying to the outside world. Even in the flat he only showed the expected range of emotions for a few months.

At first I simply assumed - God I hate assuming, but in this case I had no choice, there was a distinctive lack of available data, or any way to get it - that he simply didn't care for me as much as I'd expected. But then I quickly realised. He was different. Less authentically friendly in his seemingly normal and cheerful greetings towards his friends, even those that had no connection to me. The normal light in his eyes was gone, replaced by cold calculations and assessments of the world. He was analysing friends and family, everyone and everything really, searching for exits and entrances, searching for hidden weapons and signs of deceit.

John was undercover, and most likely, killing. That was the only thing that would explain the sense of purpose, but also the sense of coldness in his actions. Though he wasn't killing civilians, no. He hadn't snapped nearly that much, and with his level of sanity and  _feelings_ he'd be far more guilty. So I deduced. Not civilian. He's not gone back to the military due to the fact that he hasn't left the country and no officials have had any contact with him. So the logical conclusion was, he had to be killing criminals. Due to the fact that the coldness was ongoing, for months, large amounts of criminals. Due to the large amount of maps and newspapers from around the world now covering the walls of the flat, a global scale organisation. Due to the sheer determination, his grudge is personal. Add that all up, and what do you get; John was hunting down Moriarty's web. He was killing them. Obvious.

Aiding me even now, though he didn't know it. My blogger, loyal even to a corpse.  _Sentiment._ But this time, I suppose I don't mind all that much. I confirmed with my fat arse of a brother. He still tried to hide it from me. Usually he's not nearly this idiotic. I blame Anderson, his influence must be growing. Infecting all people of reasonable intelligence in London. I can only hope that John is immune. I really should have realised from the moment I noticed my targets vanishing and reappearing dead, but I simply suspected Mycroft's involvement, not John's as well. Mycroft was trying to hide how broken my friend? Nope... John's not just a friend, he's more than that. Fuck... The only word that can accurately sum up and describe John appears to be fucking John. Wonderful. What's the point of having a Mind Palace if you can't use it to be... Brilliant, Sherlock, you are simply a genius of the utmost proportions. Obvious really. He's my John.

I should never have left him. He was never meant to have the same amount of blood on his hands that has always resided on mine. He was always supposed to be protected, as much as possible. At any cost. Even my life. And look what good that did. It should never have been necessary. Damn Moriarty to the lowest pit of whatever Hell is cruelest. If only he was still alive, I could do to him what he threatened to have done to so many others. I could ssssssskin him. Strip him of his flesh and watch him scream for forcing me to harm my John like this. But no. Instead I had to watch John regain his limp, even worse than when we first met. I have to listen to him scream in the middle of the fucking night. For me. Always for me. And damn my heart, but I care for far too much to be able to bear his pain. And damn his heart for making him feel this pain. He's  _John_ , for fuck's sake.  _John._  I should never have left. And yes, I do realise how useless and illogical such a sentiment is at this point. Unfortunately, it's an irrepressible and an indiminishable thought.

It shall all be over soon however. My John and I will be back together in 221B, and all will be as it should. And I shall be able to ask, should I choose to do so. Should I succumb to my rather alarming need to know. Did he mean it? I keep hearing him say that he loves me. At my grave, in the middle of the night in his dreams. But... this isn't possible. He  _cannot_  love me. He's not  _supposed_  to love me. I love him, of course. Obvious. But he's supposed to date multiple women before eventually finding the supposed  _One_  and settling down with his own practice or something, he was never supposed to love a broken down piece of machinery like me. And I can't... no one loves me. No one, in my whole life, no matter how much I loved them. My parents tried, they're good, if fairly ordinary people, and as such, they truly did try. But how is an somewhat ordinary couple supposed to love such a precocious and intelligent child? They can't, not really.

I set my shoulders, and come to a decision. I'll allow it all to return to how it was. No more, no less. Friends. Best friends. More than that, but never lovers, no, never that far. I cannot risk losing John. Never mind my shriveled up old heart, it'll cope. Caring is not an advantage. It never has been, never will be. My love is the best proof in the world of that. And I may not be able to stop caring, but I can minimize the damage. He need not know how truly broken I am. Maimed far beyond the scars on my skin.

Soon, my John. I'm coming home to you soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for tonight folks! Hope you had a good time! Here's my new edited version, I decided I liked this chapter more than I originally thought, so yeah, just basically fixed it up a tad bit. Anyway, thank you so much for reading, it means the world, and if you find it in you to find some little thing in the chapter you'd like me to change, PM me and let me know. Once again, what I do with the characters comes from my own head, the characters themselves do not. They are due to ACD and BBC One. Ta, and see you in the next chapter!
> 
> Next Chapter: The Intruder


	7. Chapter 7

I looked around. Blimey it'd been a while. 221B. Home. Well, at least it used to be. It just didn't seem quite like home without Sherlock. I snapped my head around and slowly reached for my Browning where it was tucked into my jeans. There was a creaking on the steps up to the flat. I only relaxed a few minutes later when Mrs. Hudson came into view, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I tugged my shirt back into place, concealing the gun, and smiled. Some things just seemed to stay the same, and I was glad of it.

"I'm so glad you're back John, it's been so long. I know you most likely don't want to talk about the traveling and the jobs you've been doing for Sherlock, but I'm so glad you're home safe. I've always hated traveling to be honest, what with my hip and all. But shame on you young man! Couldn't think to stay in contact while away? I've been worried sick!" She huffed, glaring at me for a moment before softening at my awkward mumbled apologies, "Anyway, I've made you tea, just the way you like it. And those biscuits from the store you fancy. Now, I'm just doing this as a welcome home, I'm not your housekeeper. Oh, Mrs. Turner had her niece over the other day, wouldn't stop nattering on about her, personally I was more interested..." Chattering away, she moved through the flat to place the tray on the small table next to my chair. I followed her, and when she straightened, I leaned down to kiss her on the forehead.

"Thanks so much Mrs. Hudson. It's good to be here." She beamed up at me before moving away, saying softly,"It's good that you're here." She smiled, and then fidgeted a tad bit before continuing chattering.

"I didn't touch anything, so it's the same as you left it. I recon you might want to take down the wall though." The wall to which she referred was my web tacked above the mantle. Sherlock made his, I made mine. They were downright useful, plus since mine was more organised it was also rather easy to follow. Mine was of the spider's web constructed by Moriarty. A mass of black, red and grey strings. Black for the finished targets which at this point was all of them, with corresponding grey for the Ally, red for me. There was no more blue string. Blue for the targets still out there. All gone. It was all done. I breathed a sigh of relief. It'd taken too damn long, and I was so fucking tired.

Noting my lack of attentiveness, Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself and retreated down the stairs to read in her own flat. I noticed, and breathed a sigh of relief, sagging. I ran a hand through my hair and moved towards the web. I started dismantling it into the file boxes next to the fireplace with my hands on autopilot, leaving me free to think. I didn't know what I was going to do next. My quest for revenge and justice was done. Nothing more to be done in that respect. I suppose I could go back to Mycroft for work, but after what he did to aid Moriarty in Sherlock's death, I didn't want anything else to do with the bastard. Perhaps I should hunt down the Ally. Thank him for his aid in taking down the web, and maybe punch him for letting Sebastian Moran through his bloody fingers. Though according to Mycroft, he'd had ample motivation to led his aid, even on his own.

After the web was gone, I retired to my old chair, sinking down in relief. Breathing in the comforting smell of dust and gunpowder that always filled the flat. I strained, seeking out a particular scent, only to stop abruptly when realising that the smell of chemicals and experiments was long gone. The last bit of combustion had faded from the air.

He'd been my purpose to life, the only thing I knew to do when he left was to hunt down the cretins responsible for his departure and to cut them down. That done, I had nothing left to do. I could go back to doing GP work at the surgery... I grimaced at the thought of going back to that grim place and working full time with nothing to distract myself. Or perhaps I could go back to the army. I was discharged due to my shoulder, they thought it would interfere with my shooting. Well, as the last near two years had proved, that was no longer a concern. I could go for an evaluation, then go back to training camp before shipping out to wherever I was needed. A highly accurate shot with a lot of emergency medicine training, how could they say no?

I sighed. I loved the army, I really did. But I didn't know if I could go back to that hell, or any other made by man and his wars. Special Forces was right out, no more covert ops for me, thank you very much, M15 or M16 can go hang for all I care. Maybe the police? I snorted, yeah, right, join the one thing that'll remind you of the bloody bastard every second of every day.

Sighing again, I finished the last gulp of my tea and moved to get ready for bed. Moving towards the stairs to my bedroom, I paused outside Sherlock's old room. I pushed open the door, nothing had changed. God I'd forgotten about his mess. I'd cleared up everything into neat piles and stacks in the main areas and my room, so the disaster zone of his room was a shock to me. It still smelled like him a bit. Two years, and his room still smelled like him because of the mess. I smirked. He'd be proud, then want to replicate the faded scent and study the reasons as to why it'd remained. I'd get so mad at him... Moving between the books, clothing, weapons, and what appeared to be a small potted tree, I stood by his bed. I looked at the things on his night-table. Books, papers covered in his distinctive scrawl, and a picture. That was odd, ever since that whole deerstalker thing he'd been put off pictures, and I'd never seen it before. So I stooped and picked it up to get a closer look. It was of the two of us. Sitting in our chairs, the fireplace going and content smiles on our faces. It looked like it'd been taken from one of the security cameras that Sherlock kept about the flat. He was actually smiling, and considering I was too he must have been on good behaviour when this was taken. God I missed his smile. He never smiled that way for anyone else, just for me. My very own Consulting Detective. I crawled onto his bed, still fully clothed, feeling alone and vulnerable. I curled up in the center of the bed, hugging his pillow that was rarely used to my chest.

"Goodnight Sherlock you twit. I love you." I whispered under my breathe to a dead man who couldn't hear me. I dropped off soon after from pure exhaustion.

The fire-escape squeaked under my feet. Damn inferior structure. I cursed under my breath as I moved towards my bedroom window. Mycroft, the bastard, had told me that John was in tonight for the first time in weeks, and I wasn't about to stay away, not when I was so close. JohnJohnHomeLoveJohnSafeHome. Oh for God's sake. I thought I'd squashed that for once and for all! In any case, I was at the window. Not locked? My dear John, I'd've thought you'd be better at locking down your home than this. After all, anyone could take advantage of an unlocked window to sneak in.

I eased the window up as silently as possible, but not being utterly meticulous. John had never heard the noises of the window opening and closing from his room upstairs before, I didn't see why this would be any different. Also, I'd conducted an experiment that concluded that 40 decibels had to travel up to his room to wake him.

This is why I was understandably surprised that after sliding gracefully into my room, I was met with a light and a gun pointed unwaveringly at my head.

"Who the fuck are you, and what the bloody hell do you want?" Johns quiet growl seemed to resonate in my bones. I slowly raised my hands above my head, cautious not to startle him into shooting. I stared at him. His eyes were so cold and angry. I never thought... I never expected it to be like this. I expected some damage from the killing, not the appearance of a cool and collected cold individual who looked like he murdered daily.

I quickly ran through all that I knew of him. I missed something. In his past, in the army, he was shot. Army medics don't go to the front lines, how could he have gotten shot. I'd seen his file, but now I'd suspected that Mycroft had rather censored the version he gave to me. I'd always assumed it unimportant, but now I wondered.

"John." I spoke low, bowing my head so he wouldn't see the fear in my eyes. All I had wanted, all I had wanted for the last fucking two years, was to come home. And now that I had, this is what I see. A gun pointed at my head. How ironic. To survive Moriarty, his damn web, and everything, only to be killed by the man I loved on my return home. Mycroft might laugh. Moriarty would if he could, the twat.

"No, I don't know who the fuck you are, or how you know my name, but you are not him. I don't care how similar your voices sound. You are not him."

Looking up I saw John's face falter. I breathed out slowly and nearly sighed from relief. It was a mask. A damnably good one, far better than any I'd constructed, but a mask nonetheless. But behind it. So much pain. So much anger. As I looked up I allowed the light to fall on my face. He shattered. His entire face fell with horror and anger. The pain filling his eyes felt like daggers, straight to my gut, worse than any of the tortures of the past years.

"John. Please. John. I'm home. Please, I'm home. Please." Speaking slowly and quietly, cautious and looking for his reaction. I begged him. I actually begged. Sherlock fucking Holmes, and I was begging. I just needed him to see me. Needed him to see that I was home, that I came back for him and that I'd never wanted to leave in the first place. He had to see me, please, for Gods sake, he had to see me.

"No. Please God no. You can't be him." He crumpled. That's the only adequate word for it. He held the gun limply in his hand, his shoulders sagged, his face haunted and his voice cracking and full of agony.

"John, please, please it's me. I came home. I came home for you, please. Please John." My posture full of pain, my voice begging, I stepped cautiously towards him, hands held away from me. John come on, you cannot be broken, you are far too strong for that. Please...

He snarled, suddenly full of rage, and hurled himself towards me, dropping the gun. We landed painfully amongst the mess that was my floor. Pinning me to the ground, he snarled in my ear, "You cannot be him. He died. He left me. He fucking smashed his head open on the pavement after jumping off of a fucking roof. Sherlock Holmes is dead!" He roared the last sentence as he grappled with me on the floor. Abruptly I stopped struggling and lay still. We both panted as we lay there, he was still pinning me face down on the floor.

"John, it's me. Please, John. My John. I'm so sorry. Oh John, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. My John, oh god what have I done." The words stream out of my mouth as I lay on my chest on the ground, John sitting above me twisting my arm behind my back, I ignore the pain.

A quiet sound is the only answer to my words. With a shock, I realised that my soldier, my John, was weeping. Quietly and profusely. His grip slackens and I get up to sit up beside him slowly. His eyes streaming and his shoulders heaving, my John wouldn't even look at me. I reach for him, as he kneels amongst the objects and papers littering the floor. He looks at me. Finally. I can feel relief course through my veins. Finally he sees me. Oh my John, JohnSorryLoveYouSorrySoSoSorry.

"Sherlock?" And at that, I break. Tears stream down my cheek, mixing with blood from scrapes old and new, the salt stinging the wounds, minor though they are.

"I came home, John. I-" I choke out, suddenly cut off by John's arms coming around me. Oh that's... actually rather nice... I hold him just as tight as we both sit there on the ground, covered in dust and dirt from my floor, with scrapes and bruises from the fight, tears streaming down our cheeks as we just acknowledge, we're home. At long fucking last. Through fire and blood, all too literally, we're home. I sigh and hold John tighter, at some point we'll talk. He's still angered beyond all belief, I can feel it, and he deserves to know. He'll want to know. I'll have to tell him. All the absolute shit that I've done. The pain and the horror. But not now, not tonight. For tonight, we just hold each other in silence. Breathe each other in. Gunpowder, tea and wool. He still smells the same. I'd tried to replicate the scent a few times over the years but... I never could perfect it. Always missing something... I burry my face into his neck, as he does the same to me. Safe. At long last. We're both safe. We're home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DOOOOONE! I think that might be it for this storyline, I might write some other stuff eventually, but for now, I'm good. Hope you guys enjoyed, tell me if there's anything else you want me to fix or as such. Review and favourite if this is indeed something you liked. I'll see you all later. Thank you, once again, to all of those who either came before or after the editing, and to all who read till here, thank you so much. Seriously, I never thought people'd like my writing, so... thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know that some of you may be wondering why on earth it's showing that I'm updating, but I am honest. I'm not satisfied with the way the story looks right now, so I'll be fixing it up a bit for the next week. For all new comers, welcome, it's nice to see you! Hope you enjoy the story and keep reading. All rights go to BBC, I own nothing. Thanks for any R&R's you choose to leave!
> 
> Next Chapter: The Visit


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